


V: Tramp Stamp

by Cuppa_Char



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark Thoughts, Depressed Stiles, Gen, Hunters, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Nogitsune Trauma, Nogitsune bashed, Post-Nogitsune, Protective Derek, Vigilantism, derek kicks some ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Char/pseuds/Cuppa_Char
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still reeling from his actions as Void, and unable to cope with his own suffocating guilt, Stiles ends up drunk, alone and looking for a fight. It’s exactly these three attributes that lead him to being Nogitsune-bashed by a bunch of code-less A-hole hunters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	V: Tramp Stamp

**Author's Note:**

> Although there is brief MM, that is not the main focus. I had a fancy A/N all typed up to explain but AO3 froze and I lost it and I'm too tired to re-explain it. To summarise, Stiles is confused whether he's Bi or not, and that's a lot to deal with WITHOUT dealing with post-Noggi trauma. Stiles is being reckless and making mistakes on valid thoughts as a way of not dealing with the immediate fall-out of the events of 3b. Derek isn't going to be romantic figure, but rather someone who Stiles sees as a protective figure.
> 
> T/W: Stiles is Nogitsune bashed by vigilante hunters. As well as a viscous assault, they piss on him too.

_ V: Tramp Stamp _

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles isn’t drunk.

He  _isn’t._

He wasn’t when he called her, the taste of his dad’s vodka already wet on his lips, the neck of the bottle held tightly within his grasp.

 _“You never did answer me,”_ she had laughed in his ear.  _“I’ll pick you up in twenty.”_

He’s not drunk when he lets some guy press him back into the bar or slide their tongue into his mouth.

He doesn’t know if he’s gay, or bi, or whatever Caitlin had wanted to know. She doesn’t ask now, just smiles at him from across the club and winks at him before she slides closer to some girl she seems to like. Stiles lets himself be manoeuvred, body compliant as whoever grinds against him, tongue sliding in and out of his mouth, as he watches them.

Stiles can’t stop staring. Can’t stop thinking that the girl Caitlin is currently playing tonsil tennis with looks  _exactly_  like Caitlin’s dead girlfriend. He shivers because he  _knows_. Caitlin’s as numb as he is. The only difference is she’s trying to feel alive whereas Stiles is trying to lose himself to the darkness. To the darkness he deserves.

The guy attempting to dry hump mistakes the shiver for pleasure and murmurs something in his ear. Downgrading and rude and something he knows is less then what he deserves.

Stiles shoves him away, more to do with a building sense of horror at seeing who Caitlin was macking on, then the guy with the too much feely hands and trash talk about his lack of virtue.

The guy looks amused at first and then pissed when he follows Stiles unfocused and disinterested gaze.

“Little cock tease whore,” he mutters.

Stiles is  _not_  drunk when he slaps him across his perfect face.

He’s not drunk and this isn’t him. But it kind of is too. He wants to feel like Old Stiles. Stiles before the Nogitsune. His skin itches with a need to be touched, to feel  _anything_. He wants to be able to step out of the suffocating darkness, guilt and blame and into gentle touches and comforting words. He also wants to be hit, to be yelled at, to be hated and punished and made to feel like trash because no matter what happens, he isn’t the same. His body might be, but when it comes down to it, it’s really only a carbon copy. He might have all the small intricate details and the exact same moles and freckles as before – he knows, he counted – but it’s something that the Nogitsune created and left behind like it was saying  _you’ll never be you again._ Sometimes, Stiles thinks there might actually be an invisible tramp stamp mark there. There might as well be. He’s even considered asking Derek to tattoo a little neat  **V** as a reminder to what happened, that he’d been Void before and how he was still void now. Empty. A shell. Tainted with bad memories and body organs that refuse to die.

He snags an abandoned beer bottle off the bar and slinks further into the club, rubbing at the back of his neck and his imaginary tattoo. He’s thankful that Caitlin hasn’t noticed his distress. He’d rather feed off his morose than have to explain any of it.  Caitlin doesn’t know him. She never did. Not even the Old Stiles. They were just two people who found a brief connection in a pocket of time.

He’s  _not_  drunk when he tries to start a fight with a group of guys a short while later. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re friends with his recent make-out.

“You hit my boy?” One of them asks.

Stiles giggles into the beer at the absurdity of it.

The make-out guy is standing at the back of the group of four – no, five – guys with the tell-tale signs of a red handprint across his face.

Stiles shrugs and turns to face them.  _Okay_ , so maybe he’s  _not_  the one to start the fight, but he’s definitely the first to throw a punch. He’s completely outnumbered and on the ground before he can even blink. He’s not even fighting. He’s scrapping, legs and arms kicking out wildly even as he’s plucked out of the scrum by an unimpressed bouncer.

“Stow it, kid…” one of the two club bouncers says as he and his colleague breaks the rest of the scrum up.

“How old are you?” the second one says suspiciously once they have righted him into a standing position

“Twenty-one?” Stiles answers, instantly hating how it sounds like a question.

“Got any I.D. to prove it?” he asks

Stiles  _really_  isn’t drunk when he hands over his real I.D. instead of his fake one.

“Fuck,” Stiles says when the bouncer raises his eyebrows and chuckles a  _“Seriously?”_ before flashing the I.D. in his face.

“Okay, kid. Playtime’s over,” he says, planting a big beefy hand over his shoulder.

Stiles is totally not even the slightest bit drunk when he tries to hit said bouncer in the face. The big guy doesn’t even flinch.

“C’mon!” Stiles yells, striking out at his chest. He’s suddenly blinded by anger at the lack of reaction. He just hit the guy for christ sake. “I just hit you. Fight back! Hit me!”

Instead the bouncer sighs loudly before hefting him up over his shoulder. Stiles is mildly impressed for a second before he realises he’s actually being thrown out of the club.

The bouncer sets him on his feet again when they get to the club’s door and shoves him back out into the street.

“Go home, kid…” he says, without even a backwards glance.

Stiles foot catches on something when he takes a stumbling step backwards. His phone must have fallen from his pocket. He swears the phone moves in front of his eyes. It takes three attempts to grab at it.

 _Okay, so maybe I am a little bit drunk_ , he thinks.

The screens cracked.

“That’s my phone! You asshole!” Stiles yells to the retreating figure.

He now has no way to call Caitlin who is also his ride home.

“Fuck this shit!” He continues to yell, kicking out at a parked car. He doesn’t care who the car belongs to. He doesn’t care if he gets arrested. He doesn’t care, because anything would be better than the silence. The pretending. The walking on eggshells routine everyone was doing around him.

He stumbles away and heads for the side alley of Jungle. He’s only a few feet in when the sound of a trash can falling over startles him. When he glances back there’s three guys standing in the opening behind him. Stiles doesn’t recognise them. They’re not from the group he just had a fracas with. Maybe Make-out guy has even more friends.

“You looking for trouble?” one of them asks.

_Was he?_

Maybe he was. Maybe that is exactly what he was doing. Maybe he was looking for pain. For some kind of self-assurance that he didn’t deserve to survive  _and_  be happy and healthy. A self-awareness. Stiles had never been great with self-esteem, he’d been even worse with social cues – the hyper talking and anxiety had been partly because of that, but right now he had more clarity then he ever had before.

This was who he was now.

This was what he deserved.

“Fuck off,” Stiles says, turning to leave.

He might want to feel bad. He might want to feel like he deserves shit and have a miserable life but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to feel like shit and remind himself that he’s alive and Allison wasn’t. His friends and his dad might think and act like none of it’s his fault but he wants to remind himself every day that it is. Bleeding out in the trash wouldn’t help.

“We know who you are. We know what you did.”

Stiles stops walking but doesn’t turn back.

“And here you still are. A little fox playing at silly little games.”

They round on him before he can run and he suddenly finds himself being slammed up against a wall.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles wheezes through the pain.

“Don’t play dumb,” the one immediately in front of him says. He has a scar down the side of his face that screams hunter. The one on the left discreetly reveals a shiny set of knuckledusters and a dangerous smile. Stiles eyes flicker to the right and sees the third man is blind in one eye, a swirl of ugly indentations around the socket. “Argent’s doing a pretty good job of keeping you off the market.”

Stiles gulps nervously when Scarface flicks out a knife between them.

“It won’t always be like that,” the guy tells him. “Word on the street is your pretty fair game.”

“I’m not…” Stiles stutters out nervously when the blade presses against the side of his face. “It’s gone. It’s gone,” Stiles breathes out.

His own reaction surprises him – or maybe it shouldn’t; he’s weak and pathetic and isn’t this how it all started in the first place? He’d not been strong enough, he’d let him in because he wasn’t strong enough to stand and fight back – because wasn’t this what he wanted? For someone to wail on him? To make him bleed and cry and beg for forgiveness.

“Is it?” he asks, stepping in closer. He breathes over him until all Stiles can smell is an overpowering stench of booze. Stiles wonders if he smells as bad as this guy does. “You’re tainted. You’ve been marked. No one survives a Nogitsune. You did something you shouldn’t have been able to do. You’re an abomination.”

The word sinks into him like stone. Like an anchor it threatens to pull him down further. Drown him in his despair. Morrell had said that if you held on for long enough there was still a chance to be saved.

Stiles doesn’t know why. Not anymore.

_Ab-om-in-ation_

“I thought you guys had a code,” Stiles says instead.

“I don’t abide by Argent’s code,” the hunter says and chuckles when he sees Stiles eyeball the blade. “But I’m not gonna kill you either. Not today.”

“You’re not?” he asks, licking his lips nervously. Stiles doesn’t miss the fact that the hunter doesn’t dismiss the concept completely.

“No, but I am going to teach you a lesson,” Scarface continues as he flicks the knife away. “You see, I have an issue with the fact that you’re acting like a punk ass kid, a slut, partying it up and messing with people’s heads even now. After everything that’s happened you’re out here enjoying yourself like nothing ever happened.”

“That’s not what I’m…” Stiles starts to say before a backhanded slap strikes his face

“Shut up!” Scarface continues, the calm look on his face twisting away.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes out shakily, hand going up to the side of his face. “Lesson learnt.”

He tries to push away from the wall but three of them crowd him in and shove him back up against the wall. 

“Let me go,” Stiles says.

**_Let me in_ **

“Not a chance,” Knuckleduster says, or maybe it was One-Eye, before he’s sucker-punched in the gut. He slides to floor, breaths escaping him in a rush, and feebly attempts to roll into a foetal position.

He hears a voice in his head –it’s his dad’s words – but the Nogitsune’s voice.  _Head and guts, Stiles. You have to protect the vital organs._

Stiles sees and feels flashes, a flurry of punches and kicks, knuckledusters and crazy grins and wild-eyes. When the assault dies down, all Stiles can hear is muffled and sharp breathing. His own and theirs. Distant laughter.

“Piece of shit,” Scarface mutters and then he’s pretty sure they’re pissing on him as the unmistakable odour of urine hits, dampness sinking onto his skin and into his clothes.

“Hey!” Someone shouts from the opening of the alley.

Urine stalls midstream.

“What the hell is going on?”

Footsteps explode beside him in a mini stampede as whoever had spoken chases after the three hunters.

Stiles lifts his head and eyes a pair of stilettos wearily. Maybe they’re here to finish the job.

“Stiles?”

Stiles eyes move away from the stilettos and drift around sluggishly, looking for the owner of the voice.

“Stiles,” the voice says again, more urgently this time as stilettos move closer. Stiles turns to look at them and flinches, shying away. “Oh my god, Stiles.  _Look_  at me.  _Look_  at me.”

Stiles lifts his head with effort, spitting out blood, and focusing on the red-head knelt in front of him.

“Lyd… Lyd…” he feels too dazed to say her name and so settles on “Lyds?” instead.

“You’re okay,” Lydia tries to soothe, hands fluttering uselessly by his face. She tries to touch his arm but he flinches away.

“Don’t,” he mutters, clarity coming back to him. “I have piss on me.”

Lydia’s eyes are wet with tears as she sucks in a breath.

“I’m okay,” he tells her.

“No, you’re not,” she hisses angrily. Stiles flinches involuntarily. He doesn’t know if she’s referring to the fact that he has obviously not been okay for a while or the simple fact he’s just had the shit beat out of him. Either way he’s too spent for an argument with anyone else, especially Lydia. “What the hell happened?”

Stiles ponders this for a second before answering.

“I think I just got Nogitsune-bashed,” he says with a shrug and then laughs

“Hunters?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out through another round of giggles despite the pain it was causing. “Apparently I’m fair game right now.”

“It’s not funny,” she mutters.

“It kind of is,” Stiles says even though it’s not. Maybe this burning desire to laugh until he screams or retches out whatever darkness is left in him is cathartic. Or shock. It’s not a normal reaction but it’s something.

“Help me get him up,” Lydia speaks over his head, blatantly ignoring his  _‘I have piss on me’_  warning.

Stiles blinks up at the new arrival, face flushed from running, or maybe anger.

“Danny?” Stiles grins, blood spills from his lips and he wipes at it with the back of his hand. He feels more than a little loopy right now. “You’re back.”

“I know, Stilinski…” Danny says, rolling his eyes. He has no problem at lifting Stiles off the floor and he wonders, crazily, if he’s going to throw him over his shoulder, cave man style, just like the big bouncer man. Disappointingly, he doesn’t, lifting Stiles arm around his own shoulder instead, as he wobbles him out of the trash-filled alley.

“Hospital?” Danny asks.

“No,” Lydia says.

“I’m fine,” Stiles mutters, trying to detangle himself from Danny’s clutches only to find he can’t.

“I’m not an expert here,” Danny says, shooting Lydia a sharp look. “But I’m pretty sure he needs some medical attention.”

“Trust me, Danny…” Lydia says, shuffling under Stiles arm and offering assistance to his dragging ass. “We need to get Stiles off the streets. It’s not safe.”

“I think those guys are long gone now,” Danny points out.

“I’m fine,” Stiles mutters between them. Neither of them acknowledge him.

“They might be. But there might be others too,” Lydia says, tightening her grasp on him. “I know somewhere we can take him. It’s not far.”

Five minutes later Danny is dragging him up a familiar set of stairs as Lydia leads the way. The loft door is ripped open before they even come to a stop.

“Jesus Christ” Derek exclaims, rushing forward and catching Stiles as he stumbles and pitches forward. “What the hell happened?”

“You have nice shoulders,” Stiles says into Derek’s chest. He really hopes Derek doesn’t take it the wrong way but he just wants another fireman’s lift because  _right now_ his feet just won’t work. Stiles settles for a supporting arm instead as he’s shakenly guided into the loft and settled onto the sofa.

Danny and Lydia follow them in.

Danny eyes the loft and then Derek who hasn’t yet removed his hand from Stiles arm.

“You’re name isn’t really Miguel, is it?”

 

* * *

 

 

  _tbc_

**Author's Note:**

> 2nd chapter will be Derek POV


End file.
